A newby in the writing and blogging cyberworld, who is trying to find her own path.

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We treasure our names, like it defines what we are as a whole. Even though we share it with other thousands if not millions of people. Does it define us at all? Can it be called an attribute or a collector of our every trait, thought and history?

We are more than a name. The words are a poor but needed way of society to temporary call us somehow, make a difference between our existences.
In a way, just for a moment, it does bow down and acknowledge everything behind the syllables, and then it continues on ignoring and waiting for the name’s beholder to react.

It almost seems silly of how fond some people are of their names. I suppose, to them it’s not just a name. There’s something behind it, more than a meaning we could ever understand.

My head hurts.
The deadline is due Friday, meaning I have two more days. Plus this night if I manage to stay awake; then again, how could I not when I’m this stressed? The publisher, editor or someone’s probably going to call me tomorrow asking about the book and I don’t know what to tell this person. There’s no way to finish it in about 30 hours.
Maybe I could ask them to postpone the date again… Last time, after explaining my tangled thoughts, they gave me an extra month without any kind of complaint.
I felt understood, a little bit comforted even. I don’t want to disappoint them or myself again.

Thirty seven minutes and about fifteen seconds later nothing has improved. Time passed as I wrote a few sentences; I genuinely felt stupid after reading them, and deleted everything right away. They were truly horrible lines. I assume even my cat falling on the keyboard would have created something more meaningful compared to what I’ve been producing lately.

Around five in the morning, one begins to question the worth of their existence. I have some satisfying lies; you may call them answers that I tell myself in these cases. They don’t work though. I would have to be convinced, and that doesn’t happen usually. I still try every time, muffin points for me (Right? Riiiight?).

Usually, there are ideas in my head – thoughts that I consider pleasing enough to work on, slowly turning them into full-grown compositions. What’s happened with this side of me? Have I lost it? Is it possible to lose something that has never been mine to begin with?
Can I call myself a writer? No, this is the renowned muse-less author.
Wait – what muse to begin with? The only thing I know how to do is writing. I don’t need a muse!
In truth, I couldn’t make anything out of the buttons with letters on them for over a month now. I’m a disgrace among other authors. In fact, I shouldn’t even call myself one. This person is just a human who thinks she can amuse others by putting words together, and calling them fancy names.
I shouldn’t be even doing this.
It’s Thursday, and it’s been for a few hours now. In the corner of the screen the white numbers are yelling at me: ten past six, ten past six, do something productive!
Some person, whose name I’ve never heard before called to “check up on me”. I lied to him and said everything’s alright and I’ll be finished by the given time. I wanted to be as relieved as he was when I told him this.
Okay, I CAN DO THIS.
No.
Yes. I have to. I must.
But… but. No.
Y-, ah, crap. The headache found its path back to me again.

After some sleeping I’m back sitting at the table, poking the keyboard.
The annoying numbers (pretending to be the clock on my wall) tell me I have about 16 hours for roughly forty pages. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t even need that much time. Then again, I wouldn’t be putting my cat’s paws randomly on the buttons either.

Slowly moving my index finger over the mouse pad… I open Firefox. Then click on one of my bookmarks: Deviantart. A brilliant site, where other amazing people prove they are unquestionably wonderful artists and not so troubled with deadlines as I am right now. Randomly going through the Daily Deviations, I can’t decide if I’m giving up on my creativity or getting filled with it.

There is a painting striking me with inspiration. There’s a girl on it who has a really sad face, surrounded by clouds, though she isn’t looking at them. She is somewhere else in her thoughts, even though she could enjoy the impossibility of her cloud-swing. She seems human, meaning she probably got there by chance or an accident (maybe magic?). What feeling could it be, that distracts a person from this heavenly place? I’d like to find out.

Friday afternoon, I just finished rereading everything.
I attach the file to the emails, wait until it uploads, click on the “Send” button and take a deep breath. It’s a brilliant feeling; I can feel my lungs getting filled with air.
Slowly getting used to the thought that it was indeed possible for me to finish in time, I get up from the chair to stretch my back. There’s a cup of coffee, I made hours ago, on one of the paper piles. I grab it and go out to the balcony.
I see myself in the glass as I open the door. My hair looks like a bird’s nest; just as messy as the reflection of the living room behind me.

Smiling, I take a few steps out, pressing myself to the fence, looking around casually. There’s no one in the garden below, or on any of the balconies.
– I finished! FINALLY! – Accidentally, I dropped the cup while jumping around and yelling to the walls. A few moments later, it crashed on the ground. It was quite loud for a cup.
As I lean over to check the shattered pieces, a rather angry neighbor from below is looking back at me.
– NEXT TIME, DON’T DROP COFFEE ON MY CLOTHES BECAUSE YOU’RE HAPPY! – She’s screaming and I become a little worried for her health as more blood rushes to her head than I have in my body.
I’m laughing though; I can hear the neighbor marching up the stairs.
Who said I would open the door?

Books should be called something like that. The word itself doesn’t sound nearly as exciting as the worlds they have inside them.
It’s not hard to guess what made me think of this topic. I just finished one… A trilogy, to be exact.

How brilliant it is, when the book you start reading draws you in, making you lose your sense of time, hunger, everything otherwise stated as important.
At one point, I realize and look up from the book to smile. Like a sign to myself or the little someone (who I like to think everyone else has in their thoughts as well) in my head, to be sure she knows I’m aware too. I fell for the taste of this champagne.

I keep on reading, drinking the words, thirstier than I even thought I was, for more and more. The truth is, it’s past 2 am already, I can’t see properly anymore but I just have to, have to read one more sentence. Paragraph. Page. Then start again, and I’m suddenly done with this chapter. All too soon.

Finishing the first book and knowing there are two more is a privilege, because I only found about the existence of the trilogy after all three were already out. It’s a feeling of comfort. The end is a perfect cliffhanger, but I can open the second book and go on with the story right away. And that’s what I do. I’m becoming alcoholic if the author wants me to be. It’s all too easy, when the drink tastes this pleasing.

Time is so short when I spend it doing something I love. Days were not designed for me to read. I couldn’t finish the second bottle in one day. Not that I could sleep, since thoughts about the plot adding slowly up kept me awake, making my so-very-wrong theories. Then, the next day I’m so eager to get to the third and cautiously final book, though once again, I can’t keep up with myself. Suddenly, there was a puff (believe me, I could almost hear the sound when I looked at the clock), it was almost 3 am. Though I have only reached till the half of the final story, I went to bed.

Here I am now, knowing the taste of this particular trilogy as well. It made me very drunk for days.
Just after reading the last sentence, I had to go back a few lines to make sure this was the end. For a few seconds, I unconsciously made myself enjoy the ecstasy of it all. It tasted perfect. I knew I fell in love with another one.
My system scheduled the daily reality check just after these intoxicating feelings and it felt like someone shook my head for me. Every drop of the liquid was removed from my thoughts in a blink of an eye.
It’s over. The plot, it’s not finished. IT COULD BE CONTINUED.
But it won’t be; only in my thoughts.

This is the part, when you take out the next drink, wanting to taste the same sweetness, falling again. Obeying the need, I got out the next series. After the first sentences, the first sips, I smile again, for the person inside. I can’t do it. I can’t mix the drinks. They taste their best without the other. Although the little someone in my head already knows this, of course.